Last night I was washing my face, getting ready for bed (10:30pm or so) when I heard step, crunch, step crunch on the deck outside.

Washcloth still in hand I walked quickly to the kitchen to check that the sliding glass door that leads to the deck was locked. It wasn’t. I locked it and beat a hasty retreat back to the bedroom where I turned off the light and tried to peer through the blinds into the darkness. I could see nothing; only sensed a presence out there.

Back down the hall, I grabbed my cell and dialed my husband. He answered with, not a hello, but a “I’m on my way home.”

Great, I said, feeling totally paranoid. I think there’s someone on our deck. “Could be a dog.” Step, crunch. I don’t think so.

Made brave by the phone connection to someone who could save me, or at least dial 911 if necessary, I crept back to the kitchen. I’m going to flip on the deck light, I said.

My husband installed one of those massive florescent outdoor lights last year. I call it “the sun.” At full power, it turns the deck to daylight. I stood at the door, nervously clutching my phone, and flipped the light, 90% sure I would find nothing, only my worked up imagination huddling in the dark, alone.

As the light flickered to life I saw a hulking outline revealing and panicked. There’s someone there! I yelled into the phone. A nanosecond later I was yelling my son’s name (first, middle, last) as the light revealed his shaggy hair, his Mizzou hoodie, his sheepish face.

I threw open the door I’d moments ago hid behind as if it were any kind of protection, and hauled him inside.

What are you doing?! “Sneaking out,” stating the obvious, he tiptoed in, shoes in hand. My husband, still on the other end of the cell phone in my hand heard it all.

Lectures ensued. Questions filled the air. Threats were made. My heart finally resumed it’s regular pace. Apology tendered, and accepted.

Living with a teenager is like living with an explosive device. Most of the time, it looks like something ordinary, a clock, for instance, and then one day it goes off, and you’re sitting there saying, I had no idea.

Drinking: Hot tea (my seventh cup today)
Listening to: TV, Screensavers, kids are watching
Wearing: slippers for the second day in a row (still sick, sigh)

Books I’ve read recently:
I Don’t Know How She Does It — a book that came highly recommended by dear friend Amanda (married, no kids) and very different dear friend Jen (SAHM). I’ve decided this is a delicously wicked read for SAHMs who want to smugly envision their working sisters as fallapart messes. Not so great for those of us in the thick of the balancing act. Feeling stressed? Don’t read this book. Blech.

The Devil Wears Prada If you’ve a passing interest in fashion or have ever had an evil boss, this one’s for you. Ignore the terrible mistakes in this novel (both spelling: Bobby Brown for the makeup goddess Bobbi, and Massimo for Target’s excellent line of Mossimo fashion) and it’s a fun read.

Looking for something new to page through. Leafing through my annual pickup of The Best American Short Stories currently but hate to be without reading material.

? Blogging Mommies # >

I joined a blog ring called Blogging Mommies. Sounds like a band I wouldn’t go see.

There are plenty of moms out there blogging away. My favorite, to date, is Thoroughly Modern Millie, at seventy-nine years old, the oldest recorded blogger.

Her blogs are refreshing and entertaining; like a quick visit with my Granny.

I woke up yesterday morning with a raging sore throat and knew I’d have to slip out of work and see a doctor. I was hoping to score an antibiotic and slip back to work without arising suspicion.

I dread throat cultures. Enough to get so worked up about it I’m just short of combative. The nurse gave it her best try and failed miserably. When the doctor showed up I said, “Listen, I can do my own throat culture. I know I can.”

Doc said, “I don’t have a problem with that. Go ahead.” He handed me the swab and trust me, it’s much easier to swab your own throat.

Do you have trouble with this too?

The doctor was impressed with my swabbing skill (I got the impression that no patient of his had ever taken matters into their own hands before.) He knew I did it right by my watery eyes and flushed cheeks. Unfortunately I do have strep throat so I won’t be returning to the office for a couple of days. Now I’m just hoping I don’t infect the rest of the family.

Best friend Mel will love to hear this — she did her dissertation on Streptococcus bacteria — a big fan of the little guys that are making me so miserable right now.

My son had an appointment with an orthopedist the other day. I told him that I would have to pick him up after school instead of him taking the bus, as he usually does, in order to make it to the doctor’s office.

When I got to his school I looked around, didn’t see him and figured what happened — he forgot and took the bus. So I got back in the car, and knowing we wouldn’t make the appointment called information to get the doctor’s number.

The operator connected me: “Dr. Bassett’s office.”

“Yes, I need to cancel an appointment for my son, he has an appointment at 3:15pm and we’re not going to make it.”

Pause.

“Are you sure you have the right Dr. Bassett?”

“Well, this is the number information gave me.”

“This Dr. Bassett is a forensic physician.”

Oops. I was so embarrassed I hung up.

We were among the 250,000 morons who went to Mardi Gras in Soulard. While there, we ran into a friend of my husband’s from work. He asked, “where are your kids?” We explained that they’re at home, that the eldest is 15, and they are perfectly fine to stay on their own.

Here’s where I must interject a bit of backstory. We got married when I was 18, my husband was 19, and while we had a year of college under our belts and our son wasn’t born until I was 19, we’re still a bit sensitive about it.

“15?” the friend said, “that’s high school.” .

Thinking he meant we’d been in high school when we had him, immediately and simultaneously, my husband and I said, “Nooooo . . . ”

“Yeah,” the guy said, “if he’s 15 he has to be in high school.”

Finally we got it. “Oh yeah. He is.”

Duh.

Drinking: water
Listening to: Battle of Who Could Care Less, Ben Folds Five
Wearing: khaki bootcut dress pants, black jacket, cream blouse, Kenneth Cole Mary Janes

I worked out with Cecil, evil personal trainer last night. This was “weigh-in” and take measurements night. I’m having to come face to face with my denial issues. Fact: during my last job, where I was for five years, I gained 35 lbs. I don’t know if it was stress, the desk job, or just a really unhealthy atmosphere but no matter: it all has to go.

So my plan is this: 35lbs. in 140 days. That’s 20 weeks at 1.75 lbs a week. For someone who hasn’t been in shape since, oh, eighth grade and who has never, ever dieted this could be interesting.

Drinking: cold coffee
Listening to: elevator ding
Wearing: jeans, red sweater, short black boots

It’s past five pm and I know I should be dashing out to pick up my daughter, but the office has emptied and I have a few moments of quiet.

You know that feeling when your contact lenses have been in since 5:30am and you’ve been staring at a computer screen all day? Yeah — I feel like that from head to toe.

We bought a new bedroom set four weeks ago and I have yet to sleep all night in my new bed. I do not have a newborn. I don’t understand this insomnia.

Tonight, 9pm, will go to the gym for second personal trainer encounter. Will try not to die from a) humiliation or b) extreme pain.

I’m a working mom, living and working in St. Louis, Missouri. I have one husband, two kids, and three jobs. This blog is about balancing, falling, picking yourself up again and getting going. It’s also a bit about Stay at Home Moms (SAHMs) and Stay at Work Moms and the unending rivalry in our sisterhood. Nearly all my female friends are SAHMs. My at-home times have been almost exclusively maternity leaves and sometimes I long for the extended break.

Professionally, I am a writer and a marketing director. I have been married for nearly sixteen years. My kids are a freshman in high school (son) and a second grader (daughter).